


The Mortar and The Glue

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warlock Sherlock is sent to determine if the land on the far side of the mountains is safe. Between Jim and John, he just can't decide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wandering

**Author's Note:**

> For the[Sherlock Reverse Big Bang](http://sherlockrebang.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Artist Extraordinary:**[etharei](http://etharei.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Beta Goddess:**[ecto-gammat](http://ecto-gammat.livejournal.com/) All remaining mistakes are mine own, as I can't leave well enough alone. She pointed out something in the plot that I didn't get fixed in time for her to beta it again, so really, all my fault. You should see what she's forced to work with!

  
Sherlock eyed the troll crashing through the valley towards him, each of its steps leaving behind a small crater. Once he saw the whites of its tiny eyes, he flicked out a hand. There was a flash of blue and white; nothing was left of the troll but a somewhat bigger, still smoking, crater. Sherlock sighed. 

  
"Boring," he announced. 

  


  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/trista_zevkia/pic/0002wksa/)   


  


When no reply seemed forthcoming, Sherlock repeated himself, considerably louder. “Boring!”

  
“Yes, Sherlock, you’ve made your feelings on this quite plain.” 

  
Sherlock didn’t start at the voice, and managed a convincing scowl when he finally turned to his visitor. “I sincerely hope, brother mine, that you haven’t dragged me away from my studies to attend to another troll infestation.” 

  
“That troll was fleeing from the practitioners I have dealing with that issue.” A dismissive gesture was combined with flicking dirt off of Mycroft’s tasteful black robes. 

  
“So I can go?” Sherlock asked, to be annoying. 

  
“No. The reason I had you meet me at the foot of these mountains is still an issue.” 

  
A heavy sigh and burst of energy produced a cushy chair, so Sherlock could flounce onto it and announce his continuing boredom. 

  
“I find that not knowing what is on the other side of the mountains is no longer acceptable. Some interesting creatures have emerged from the mountains in recent months. As you know…”

  
Sherlock interrupted, in an effort to hurry this along. “None of the elaborate and expensive search parties sent out have ever returned?” 

  
“So I have decided…”

  
“That one competent individual would be better than a caravan of imbeciles?” 

  
“Yes.” Mycroft’s succinct reply showed the constant interruptions were getting to him. His voice and face were still composed and serene, which would not be the case if he was annoyed by Sherlock and not simply his antics. 

  
“Too bad, because, by your own reasoning, all you need is a competent person.” Sherlock offered with a thoughtful face. He was acting, and Mycroft wasn’t fooled, but it showed Sherlock was paying attention. “I am a more than that, I am superb, and far too busy to do field work for you.” 

  
“Normally, I would agree with you.” 

  
“So what’s not normal about this situation?” 

  
“It’s spring, Sherlock.” 

  
“Happens every year.” 

  
“And what else happens every year?” 

  
Sherlock looked at his brother with fear in his eyes. “Oh gods, the spring balls!” 

  
“Yes, and Mummy decides that we need marrying off…”

  
“I’ll go!” Sherlock stood, vanishing his chair with a swift movement. “I’ve got some things to take care off, but I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” 

  
“I expect regular updates.” 

  
“Sod off, Mycroft.” 

  
“Mummy will come after you if you don’t communicate with me.” Mycroft watched the shudder work its way up Sherlock’s spine, adding his finishing thoughts just as the shudder reached Sherlock’s shoulders. “She could find you a spouse anywhere.” 

  
“Anything else you want to use Mummy to blackmail me into doing?” Sherlock snarled back, his shoulders tense. 

  
“That should be enough to be getting on with, I believe.” 

  
“Go start a war.” Sherlock snarled as he traced a rune in the air. The rune expanded until it made an arch, through which Sherlock’s abode could be seen. It looked to be a deserted castle he’d taken over, at least by what Mycroft saw before Sherlock stepped through and the rune collapsed. 

  
Sherlock kept switching houses, as he periodically destroyed them. Mycroft lived in the middle, where it was easiest to watch the whole kingdom. When Mycroft had to speak face to face with his brother, he would request a neutral meeting place. He could have, and often did, travel to Sherlock unannounced. 

  
Besides being more civilized, a prearranged meeting saved on the energy required to transport while focusing in on a target. Sherlock thought Mycroft lazy, but Sherlock was still young and didn’t understand the importance of conserving his energy for the important things. Tracing his own rune in the air, Mycroft hoped this expedition would teach his brother a few of the lessons he refused to learn. But not too many lessons; Mummy would be very upset if Sherlock was unhappy. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
Sherlock wasn’t lying when he said he had things to attend to. He had potions brewing and experiments in progress, and he really didn’t want to go. The spring balls, with all the imbecilic, power hungry suitors, both male and female, that Mummy always found were a month away, so Sherlock took a week to actually leave. Annoying Mycroft with his slow departure was sweeter than any of the desserts his brother enjoyed. When Mycroft’s terse message included an invitation to the first ball of the season, Sherlock decided to get underway. 

  
Sherlock crammed all his finished potions and be-spelled scrolls in a bag of holding and slid on his coat. He’d made the coat and bag, and readily trusted his life to these items. The bag of holding was limitless, capable of holding whatever he chose to put in it, even if it was bigger than the bag. The coat was very special, and looked damn good on him. 

  
A rune pulled up a gateway to the mountainside where he’d last seen Mycroft, and Sherlock stepped through. It took him a moment to orient, to realize that he was facing the rising sun. Despite the week in-between, he’d accidently managed to leave first thing in the morning. Sherlock would let Mycroft’s reaction dictate if he was pleased or annoyed at this, taking on the opposite of whichever emotion Mycroft felt. 

  
Selecting a site on the side of the mountain, another rune moved him to that spot. Some quick climbing would put him on top of the mountain and he’d have a line of sight for further jumps like that. Mycroft’s minions had been idiots, and Sherlock thought this travel spell would let him finish this task just in time to miss the last ball of the season. If it all turned out to be quite interesting, then Sherlock would stay as long as he liked. 

  
The thin air at the top of the mountain did slow down his climbing, but he still got there before Mycroft would have started his second breakfast. He crested the rocky peak and took a look at what was before him. An annoyed moan worked out of Sherlock’s throat as he looked down at the featureless desert at the end of the mountain range. The spell that would zoom him through his travels only worked if he had a visual reference, and the runes only worked if he’d been to a place before. It now looked as though he’d actually have to walk to where he was going. 

  
Annoyed, Sherlock selected a spot lower on the mountain and let the magic pull him there. Once he’d worked his way out of the mountain range, he sat on a foothill and considered his situation. He needed to let Mycroft know he’d left and found a desert. He’d also say he expected a quick reply, to make sure his message got over the mountain range. He imagined a sheet of paper and a quill, letting his magic craft a letter only the recipient could read. After writing the intangible note, he imagined crumpling it up and throwing it at Mycroft. 

  
Turning to watch the sun set behind the mountains, Sherlock waited. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to spend years of his life wandering the desert, so there had to be a way to speed this up. The sooner he got done, the sooner he could go back to his studies. There was a certain potion he’d just found and he wanted to explore it some more. 

  
The tiny taste he’d had sharpened his focus and clarified the world around him, though after the concoction left his system, he’d felt worse than before and it left him wanting more. He had just set up more to brew when Mycroft had requested their meeting; which was so much better than Mycroft showing up at Sherlock’s and sneering at everything, or forcing him to abandon the potion. 

  
His brain tingled with the feeling of incoming magic and Sherlock tested it to make sure it felt of Mycroft before allowing it past his shields. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock opened a neatly folded imaginary sheet of paper and read the note. 

  
_That area was decent farmland. Investigate carefully. Mummy expressed disappointment at you not attending the balls, but is pleased you are doing something productive. Did you remember to pack food for your journey?_

  
Sherlock let the magic settle, but still imagined the paper getting wadded up in his hands, and thrown against the rocks. Even in his mind, Sherlock enjoyed the image of the letter impacting on a solid surface and bouncing up, especially when it gave him an idea: if the spell could zoom him towards a thing, why not away? Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft lecturing him on trying spells without proper study and controls for possible repercussions. 

  
_Food is boring._

  
Sherlock sent his reply and didn’t wait for Mycroft’s. He mentally pulled apart the zoom spell, seeing how all the elements connected. Then, it was relatively easy to take out the words and intentions that made the spell _pull_ and changed them to _push_. Un-focusing his gaze, Sherlock tried to imagine the mountains from further away. Grinning with anticipation at what he was about to do, developing a new spell and risking his life because he wanted to, Sherlock shoved against the mountain. 

  
He crashed, stumbling backwards and landing on his arse, but he was alive and further from the mountain. Laughing, he stood and readied himself for landing on unfamiliar terrain before trying again. Soon enough, he was standing on soft, sliding sand. It wasn’t hot enough to distract him, so he pushed on until the mountain range was too small to use as a reference. Sherlock sent a message to Mycroft, his zoom out spell written in the formal language of magic and no other words. Still happy over his triumph, Sherlock turned east and started walking. 

  
The rising sun was quick to climb into view over the desert, almost like knitting needles being jabbed into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock looked at the ground under his feet and kept walking. Now that he was forced to walk, he was bored with this and would have gone back to his experiments if it didn’t mean Mycroft would gloat at him for the next hundred years. Annoyance was what propelled him forward, and his annoyance only grew as he felt the tug of magic on his senses. Turning west, Sherlock sat and waited for the magic to reach him. 

  
The pull of the spell was strong, almost screaming of Mycroft. That was strange, as he was always so careful and subtle in his crafting. Mycroft was all about being the power behind the puppet, or whatever body occupied the throne these days. As the spell reached him, it sent out feelers to confirm it had reached its target. Sherlock realized it was a parcel just before the spell broke apart, dropping a small bag and an enchanted wineskin at his feet. 

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the note on real paper attached to the outside of the bag of holding, but read it. 

  
_Sherlock, don’t be an idiot._

  
_Mycroft, don’t be a fat jackass._

  
Sherlock sent back the message even as he drank from the wineskin of water. The water tasted stale, but that was a side effect of the spell that kept the wineskin full. After a light meal of bread and cheese from the bag of holding, Sherlock walked on. 

  
Heat started to bake into his skin and the pain in his eyes only got worse until he stopped just before midday. Using his coat as a shelter, he slept out the worst of the heat. Sleeping was unproductive and something he avoided, but it was all the desert would allow him to do. 

  
When he was ready to move on, he couldn’t stand the idea of putting his coat back on in this heat. It was of his own design, spelled for comfort and protection and capable of changing colors to match his moods. But his beautiful coat wasn’t powerful enough to fight back the desert heat, and made a moaning noise as he carefully folded it. A gentle pat as he placed it in his bag of holding, and Sherlock was walking again. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
Sherlock lost count of the days he walked, the number of times he’d pulled his coat out at night and put it away during the day. He refused to be grateful to Mycroft, even as he drank freely from the enchanted wineskin. The food bag was emptying out, as it only held what was put in it, but he wasn’t desperate enough to ask for more just yet. 

  
Besides, a breeze had livened up this afternoon, making the still, dry air a little more bearable. Sherlock stopped to send Mycroft a note about leaving him alone, and took a good look around. Far behind him was a cloud, dark and low to the ground. Mountain ranges were good for that, trapping air currents and the water carried on the air. The other side of the mountains was wet with snow and seasonal creeks, allowing green things to flourish. This was the first cloud Sherlock had seen since he’d been here, which was a suspicious thing that he needed to look into. Once he’d found civilization and had a bath, that is. 

  
_To the east and start walking,_ he commanded his weary body. With nothing else to do, it obeyed. Sunset seemed to come early, until Sherlock realized it was the cloud covering up the sun behind him. He frowned that it took him seconds to realize this, a clear sign that the boredom was killing his brain. His time sense must have been off, from walking during the cool of the night and sleeping in the heat of the day. 

  
Wondering if it wasn’t far too early for sunset, Sherlock glanced behind him. That cloud had covered a few days worth of walking in a big damn hurry, and it would soon be over him. A roaring reached his ears and Sherlock cursed himself for a fool. Tossing himself to the ground, he pulled up a magic shield over himself and hoped he could hold out. 

  
He should have known there wasn’t any water in that cloud. He had a never ending supply of water, yet he hadn’t even had to pee in days, as the heat leached the moisture out of his body. This was a cloud of wind and sand, eager to strip the flesh off of anything dumb enough to get caught in it. 

  
As the sand pelted against his shields, slowly but surely shredding them, Sherlock realized he was just that dumb after all. And Mycroft was right, damn him. Sand was cutting into his back as he tried to dig into the ground, because Sherlock hadn’t held a reserve of magical energy as Mycroft was always telling him to. The pain was enough to drive even thoughts of Mycroft from his mind, until Sherlock found unconsciousness. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

  
“Where do these idiots come from?” 

  
The voice was coming through a long tunnel, accompanied by pain to prove Sherlock was alive. He wanted to protest that he wasn’t an idiot, but the pain reminded him of his situation and he ceded the point. 

  
“Well, he’s a lucky sod.” 

  
The same voice speaking, and Sherlock wondered if he’d passed out and missed part of the conversation somewhere. 

  
“No, I’ve got it. I’m sure he’d thank you if he was awake.” 

  
Now Sherlock had to say something, let the crazy man who was talking to himself know that Sherlock was awake. Lifting his head brought a fresh wave of pain, and Sherlock passed out again. 

  


¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ


	2. Healing

Sherlock awoke slowly, leisurely, luxuriating in the bed even without being aware of why he was doing so. Waking up enough to realize he was on his side in an actual bed only made Sherlock want to snuggle down into it more. He was in a cool place, not burning hot or freezing cold, but comfortable. The bed was a box of straw with a blanket over it and another blanket on him, but it was heavenly after nothing but sand for an eternity. Sleeping might be boring, Sherlock decided, but even peasant beds were fantastic. Sherlock thought about just lying there for another day or so, until a smell reached him. Stew. Someone was making stew, real food instead of nibbles of dry bread and cheese crumbs.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock went through the exercises involved with establishing his personal shields. It was a habit more than anything, as he’d long ago learned to keep them up even when asleep or unconscious, but a good habit. It kept him in touch with his transport, allowing him to feel his body and determine if he was fully functional. His head was muzzy, and not just from sleep. Somebody must have gotten him to drink medicine for the pain. The skin along his back, arse and thighs was only tender; making him decide new skin had been magically grown over the sand abrasions. It would be painful and raw if the skin was growing without magical assistance. 

He’d been rescued, and considering he was naked, he really hoped it wasn’t by Mycroft. 

Rolling on his back to sit up and put his feet on the floor would probably be painful, so Sherlock took a quick look around. He was in a small room, rounded with no windows, and alone. Shuffling backwards, he got his feet on the floor and made sure he could stand without collapsing. He’d be a sight with his naked arse in the air, but he’d be even more of a sight collapsed on the ground. Deciding his legs were stable, Sherlock pushed his torso away from the bed until he was standing. His thighs, arse, and back protested the movement but it was much less painful than lying on his back would have been. 

Securing his blanket around himself, Sherlock pushed back the thin curtain of a door and went to find the stew. He walked as quietly as he could, which was pretty quiet, hoping to have a warning before danger showed itself. Not that he expected people who rescued and healed him to change their minds before he spoke, but one could never be too careful. 

He found a strange room with metal pipes stuck into the rock walls, but his hunger overrode his curiosity. Sherlock scowled at his transport having this much control over him, but he swore it would only be this once. The hallway ended with another cloth door, behind which was a small kitchen. A small man leaned on a cane as he stirred a pot over a small fire, and Sherlock wondered if he’d been abducted by the little people in Mummy’s stories. 

“Stew will be ready shortly; you got up sooner than I expected.” The small man spoke as he straightened up and turned to Sherlock. 

Sherlock was highly relieved to see the man was of average sized, though shorter than himself, stooped and curled as he cooked. Even standing, the man leaned heavily on the cane and had some deformity of the left shoulder that made him look hunched over. Seeing all this was instantaneous, so Sherlock could reply to the conversation without taking several minutes to understand it. Though, given the man’s accent, confusion was to be expected. 

“Did you hear me coming? People often complain I don’t make enough noise when I walk.” 

A smile greeted Sherlock’s words. “Not really. I don’t know how long you were wandering in the desert, but it doesn’t take long before anybody needs more than a sponge bath to feel clean.” 

“That’s the nicest way I’ve ever heard anybody tell me I stink.” 

“People often tell you that you stink?” 

“Not often, but enough.” Sherlock started to shrug, but the movement flared the pain in his back. 

“Let me draw you a bath. You can sit and soak while you eat. Sounds stupid, but that wooden bench is a pain even if your arse is fine.” The man turned away for a moment, turning back with a clay mug of tea in his hand. 

When he held it out, Sherlock took it and the man walked past Sherlock, down the hallway he’d just come through. Sherlock sipped the tea, and found it was delicious. It was warm but not hot, so Sherlock drank it all before following the man. 

“I have a few questions.” Sherlock asked, though he didn’t say anything more when he saw the man had lead him to the strange pipe room. 

“Only a few? Most people have hundreds at this point.” The man was amused as he pulled back a cloth curtain, showing a bathtub. 

Sherlock felt himself tear up at the sight, just a little, even though he knew it’d have cold water and take the crippled man several hours to carry in the water to fill it; if the man could even get up from where he’d knelt on the floor beside the tub. “Can we start with who you are?” 

“John. Who are you?” 

Sherlock blinked at the short statement, even though it was said in a friendly way, and replied in kind. “Sherlock.” 

John didn’t reply, instead he pulled a cork out of a metal pipe. Water poured out of the pipe, steaming as it filled the tub. “Do you like the water hot or not?” 

“Hot. The hotter the better, especially with so much sand to melt off.” 

“Can’t get it too hot then, the sand might turn to glass.” John loosened another cork as he said this, allowing a second pipe to drop water into the tub. 

This wasn’t steaming, and Sherlock was so thrilled at the idea of hot and cold running water in a house that he didn’t inform John that other things had to be done to sand to turn it into glass then just heating it. 

When the tub was mostly full, John shoved the corks back in and lurched to his feet. “I’m going to step into the hallway. Let me know if you need help getting in, or if you get in and don’t need me.” 

Sherlock didn’t wait until John was completely out of the room before dropping his blanket and getting into the inviting water. Whoever John was, he’d probably already seen Sherlock naked, so modesty was silly. Sherlock lowered himself gently into the water, trying his best to float instead of sitting on the tub bottom and ignoring the smile in John’s voice. 

“I’ll take that to mean you don’t need my help. Flannel on the shelf to your right, soap under it. I’ll bring the stew in a little while.” John and his cane made their way down the hall, stopping before they reached the kitchen. A scraping noise as John picked something up preceded his call back down the hall. “And some more tea, apparently.” 

Sherlock tried to feel bad about leaving his mug wherever he’d left it, but the water felt too nice for that. Curling up on his left and resting his head on the side of the tub, Sherlock relaxed. Who was his host? The local healer, the healer’s cook, or some random guy the healer had picked to look after Sherlock? Either way, it seemed the healer hadn’t been able to do much for John. While he considered what he knew, Sherlock dreamed of eyes watching him. A dream of eyes, hidden in shadows, yet they weren’t Mycroft’s eyes or minions. 

“Wake up, Sherlock.” John called softly, pulling Sherlock from the strange dream. 

Sherlock would have been grateful for that, but he put it out of his mind when he realized John was holding a bowl of stew. Sherlock sat up and reached for it, letting John grin at him. 

“Sorry to wake you, but you’ll sleep even better with some food in you.” 

“And once I get some answers.” Sherlock countered, in between bites. Was it only hunger that made him think John was the greatest cook ever? 

“Don’t know all that much, but since you’re not shy, I’ll explain what I can while you eat.” John turned around and adjusted something his body hid from Sherlock’s view before sitting on it so he faced Sherlock. “You were out in the sandstorm. Some friends of mine found you. You were brought here and fixed up. What else would you like to know?” 

“Who you are, who your friends are, where I am, what do you want in return for healing me and feeding me? Who is your ruler, how long has that desert been there, how do you have hot and cold running water, what are your walls made of and anything else you feel like telling me.” Sherlock realized he’d been scrapping the bottom of his bowl as he spoke, and held it out to John. “And if you have any more stew?” 

John laughed. “More stew, then more answers.” 

Sherlock watched John stand and carry the bowl away before dipping his head in the water. When he surfaced, he felt like he’d lost a stone just washing the sand out of his hair. He’d lose another when he got rid of the ridiculous beard he’d grown while in the desert. 

“Here’s your stew, but you should eat slowly so you don’t make yourself sick.” 

Sherlock took the bowl and started eating, forcing himself to eat slowly as John sat down and started talking. 

“My friends and I are unimportant, we just help where we can. This is Afaga and our king died under mysterious circumstances without a named heir. So, for the last twenty years or so, a bunch of minor nobles and warlords have been fighting to be king. Since you don’t know that, and from the strange way you talk, I’m guessing you’re not from here. Don’t speak just yet.” 

John held out a hand in warning, and Sherlock fed himself another mouthful in an effort to pretend he was just eating, not about to confirm John’s surprisingly accurate deduction. 

“No matter who is king or in charge, policy for the last hundred years or so has been to kill anyone from the other side of the mountains. It would be a traitorous act to help or harbor anyone believed to come from that area. Some vague horror stories about a powerful sorceress. My best guess is that you’re from that kingdom to the far north, Eireland, and you don’t sound like them because you’re trying so hard to sound like us. Am I right?” 

“Absolutely.” Sherlock said, surprised at John accepting a stranger who could get him killed if he talked to anybody. Who did that, risking so much for just anybody? He’d heard talk of altruistic acts, but Sherlock knew they always had an ulterior motive. 

“The desert used to be crossable in a day’s journey.” John continued, watching Sherlock’s face. “But for the last ten years, it’s been expanding and nobody knows why. People started using hollow reeds to transport rainwater to underground storage, and eventually they used metal pipes. I built this place underground, expanding a natural cave, so some of the walls are rock and some mud or brick. I have metal pipes on the ground over the cave, where they get hot in the sun, so I have hot water for bathing and cooking. Does that answer all your questions or did I leave something out?” 

“Underground house that you built, so you’re a stonemason. Your injuries would prevent anyone from hiring you to work stone, but your patron should have paid for a decent healer if you were injured on site. Maybe. Your kitchen and pantry are full of grains and herbs, which suggest you are a farmer. You don’t have dirt caked under your fingernails like most farmers, though the ready access to water might factor into that. Except. You keep your hair short, so it can’t be grabbed in a fight, which suggest you were in the military. Most armies have a healer mage, and even the incompetent novice for a local militia should have been able to heal your leg and shoulder better than that, so I don’t think you were in the military when you were hurt. But then again… no. You, uh, made sure I wasn’t from the mountains when it would have been safer to turn me in and let the authorities make sure of my loyalties. So you either think you can handle yourself, or you don’t care about your life, which leads me back to the military. Except, problem with authority, subversion of authority, these things will get you killed by the army and you’re still alive. What are you, John?” 

“Is all that true? Farmers always have dirt under their nails and members of the military are more likely to have short hair?” 

“It’s something I’ve observed. There may be exceptions, but usually other clues tell me why they are exceptional.” 

“That’s brilliant!” 

“Really?” Sherlock had to ask, unsure if he’d heard that right. 

“Amazing, really. I bet you could look at somebody and tell their life story.” 

“That’s not what people usually say.” 

“Oh?” John looked embarrassed, as if he was convinced he’d made a terrible mistake. 

It must have been because he’d fed Sherlock such an excellent stew that Sherlock wanted to assure John it was a good thing to be different in this instance. “Before you were amazed, I was about to tell you that you couldn’t throw me out because I was injured. That’s what most people would have done after I’d said all that about them.” 

“Oh.” John said, but his posture and face relaxed. 

Sherlock caught himself before he could smile at John, turning it into a yawn. 

“Right. You should scrub up. I’ll go freshen up your bed and try to find some clothes for you.” 

“Do you have a mirror and razor?” Sherlock knew he was better at shaving with magic, but decided not to risk it right now. He was tired, hurting and still too fuzzy headed to do magic. 

“I’ve got scissors, so I can trim it after I get back. You’re still a little shaky, and I don’t think you need another cut to heal, so I don’t want to risk shaving you yet.” 

“Good idea.” Sherlock nodded as John left. Holding out his hand to look at; it was clearly shaking. Sherlock decided he was really tired if he hadn’t even noticed. By the time he’d scrubbed down with the flannel and soaped out his hair, the shaking was painfully obvious. John returned and Sherlock couldn’t hide it, so he didn’t try. 

“Just a quick trim to make you feel better, and then back to bed.” John placed a dry flannel on Sherlock’s chest and quickly trimmed the beard down. Folding up the flannel, John worked himself back up to his feet and Sherlock washed his chin. “Can you stand?” 

“Hopefully.” Sherlock muttered, before forcing himself to stand. John was ready with a large, soft drying cloth to wrap around him. Sherlock dried himself as best he could before stepping out of the tub. As he reached up to dry his hair, John dried his legs. It was a strange feeling, but John was quick and gentle, a professional touch at drying another person off. Sherlock wanted to ask about where he’d learned that skill, but not while naked. “Where are my clothes?” 

“I’m sorry, but nothing I’ve got would even pretend to cover you decently.” 

“No, I mean, where are the clothes I was wearing?” 

“Oh, shredded by the storm. Fell off completely when I picked you up.” 

“You picked me up?” Sherlock looked down, now knowing John was a normal sized person, and still found it hard to believe that he’d been able to carry Sherlock. 

“I haul my own body weight around on a regular basis, what’s a stick insect on top of that?” John hobbled away while Sherlock worked out if he should be insulted, but Sherlock’s long legs quickly caught up with him. “I’ll work something out about clothes while you sleep. Can you find your way to the room with the bath or do I need to leave you a chamber pot?” 

John had stopped, holding back a curtain doorway, and Sherlock counted how many curtains they’d passed to get here. It was a single hallway, curvy and only lit by the occasional lantern, following the natural lines of the cave probably. “Three curtain doors on one side, two on the other. Why do you have so many rooms in your house?” 

“Gives me something to do in between visitors. Tea’s beside your bed. Sleep well, Sherlock.” 

John hobbled away while Sherlock considered that and drank his tea. Did John seriously add rooms to his cave house just to keep away the boredom? If Sherlock could do something that productive with his boredom, would Mummy be proud of him? Curling up on the bed and getting comfortable took his attention away from such deep questions. His last thought before falling asleep was to wonder how John had avoided answering any questions about himself. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

Cave houses didn’t help a person tell the time; Sherlock grumbled to himself as he made his way to the bath room. He’d woken up needing to pee, and not had any idea of how long he’d been asleep or what time it was. The bath tub had been emptied, and where John had sat while Sherlock bathed had been changed. A wooden lid was up, showing a large hole with a distinctive smell. Taking it for the lavatory it was, Sherlock used it before taking another bath. Awake now, he was able to shave and trim his hair with a bit of magic. Securing his blanket around his waist, Sherlock headed for the kitchen, stopping when he heard voices. 

“Is peasant food all you know how to make?” This was a new voice; one that was contemptuous of somebody’s cooking. Perhaps the healer John worked for? 

“Yes.” John’s reply was short, but still held an edge that surprised Sherlock. It seemed John didn’t care for his other person. Not an employer then, a second guest recovering from injuries? 

“I’m recovering here, I need meat!” 

“Then I suggest you go hunt some down. The animals have been fleeing the desert for decades, so I’ll probably be dead by the time you get back.” 

The laugh that followed this statement seemed genuine, but still slightly off. The laugh broke off abruptly, and a sing-song voice called out. “Story time, John!” 

“I’m cooking here, and the other guest is sleeping.” John was trying to stay calm, but the annoyed edge to his tone indicated this was a request he’d heard far too often. 

“Tell me a story, or I’ll go wake him up.” 

“You’re not a child.” 

“But you’re too boring to talk to, so tell me a story.” 

John sighed heavily. 

“Story, story!” The voice began to chant, wooden spoon striking the table with each repetition. 

“Fine!” John called, and the banging immediately stopped. “Once upon a time…”

“How original.” The voice was now bored and sarcastic, despite having gotten what he wanted. 

“A kindly king and queen had a baby girl. To celebrate, they invited every one of the Fae folk, or fairies, to a party.” 

“Except one who was evil and she cursed the baby who fell asleep when she went to spin straw to gold. I’ve heard it!” 

“The straw to gold is another story, but whatever. Why don’t you tell me a story, and I’ll repeat it back to you, since this is all your idea anyway?” John was annoyed and probably thinking about maiming the man under his roof. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure about this new person, but thought distracting him away from John might make up some of what he owed John. He’d probably have to meet him eventually, healing in a cave house together, so Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. John flicked his eyes over to Sherlock, but seemed to want to keep the other man in sight. The other man was taller than John, but slim and lacking John's compactness. Sherlock wondered if this place just produced people shorter than him, but would need a larger sample size to determine that. 

“Hello, stranger!” The new man said with an exaggerated version of the lusty voice Sherlock was used to from Mummy’s suitors. 

“Sherlock, this is James.” John almost muttered the introduction, clearly loath to make it. 

“Oh, the beautiful people can call me Jim.” Jim purred as he rose from the bench and slid over to Sherlock. “Which means you can call me J.” 

Sherlock looked to John, who shrugged helplessly. 

“Nice to meet you, Jim. John, I don’t know how long it’s been since I ate, but I find I’m hungry again.” 

“Don’t know why, this time you only slept for two days. See if you can sit, I’ll get you some tea.” 

“Oh, sit beside me!” Jim bounced a little before pulling Sherlock over to the table. 

It was with a massive effort that Sherlock managed to refrain from pointing out that it was a small kitchen with a small table and only a few places to sit. Unless Sherlock sat in the fireplace, he’d be sitting beside Jim. When he did sit, Jim tossed a leg over Sherlock’s and plastered himself to him. 

“So, Sherlock. What brings you to a place like this?” 

“I was injured.” 

“So was I! Unexpected sandstorm.” Jim let his hand shove away the boring conversation. “Pouty little John hasn’t told me much about you, and I think you’re probably fascinating. Where have you been hiding all my life?” 

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Jim?” That was a distraction technique Sherlock had learned at his second ball on the arm of a young woman who was too boring to talk to. While she’d talked, Sherlock had been able to study the humanity around him, determining their secrets. 

“Little Jimmy’s so boring you wouldn’t believe it.” Jim scrunched up his nose in a way that was calculated to be endearing. “I want to hear about you.” 

John set two cups of tea in front of them, but Sherlock saw the sympathetic look that came with the tea. Jim seemed friendly and harmless, but John apparently saw something else, something that made Sherlock want to look closer. Turning on a smile, Sherlock sipped his tea and focused on Jim. 

“I’m the baby of the family, hogged all the attention, according to my brother. I think he’s Mummy’s favorite, since he has an important job and I’m just an academic. I sit and read all day; it’s really very boring. I was only in that desert because my brother said it would make Mummy happy.” Sherlock knew he sounded like a spoilt child, but instead of convincing Jim that he wasn’t interesting, it seemed to sharpen Jim’s focus on him. Time to turn the questions back to Jim. “Do you know what it’s like to always have to please someone else?” 

“Oh, no. I haven’t tried to please anyone except myself in a very long time. Though pleasing you could pleasure me, too.” Jim licked his lips in a not at all subtle invitation and Sherlock concentrated on finishing his tea. 

“Shepard’s pie, no shepherd, no sheep. Sherlock, I’ve got some clothes for you. Not much, but better than the blanket.” John muttered as he put two plates on the table. With his hands empty, he was able to take the cane off of his forearm and limp back to the fireplace. He reached for a third plate when a bell chimed. He froze where he was, until the bell sounded again. 

As John limped away, Sherlock found a lump of pie being held before his eyes. 

“Can you believe this? How are we supposed to heal while eating this mushy potato?” 

Sherlock spooned up some of his serving and tried it. “It’s not that bad, especially considering what he has to work with.” 

“Really? You wouldn’t want to add some spice to it?” Jim asked, his innocence just a little too perfect for Sherlock to believe in. 

“I don’t have any spices. What’s wrong with the tea?” 

“It’s bitter, and needs milk.” 

“Cows need water to make milk, or so I’ve read.” Sherlock muttered as he ate his food. 

Jim shoved his plate away with a huff. He glared at the plate for a minute before turning to Sherlock, face sweet and dreamy once again. “An amateur mage could make me some milk for my tea. Would you help me out, if at all possible?” 

John thumped back into the kitchen, giving Sherlock a distraction to frown at. Jim was up to something, but why would he want to connive Sherlock into doing magic? Asking would be polite, and there were magical means of detecting other practitioners. Why was John now wearing a dirty brown cloak that didn’t belong near his clean house? John was digging through a cabinet, emerging at last with a small jar of dried herbs. He pulled the hood on his cloak up before leaving again. With the hood up, his hunched figure, and thick cane, John looked ancient. 

“Sherlock, darling, leave John to his servant duties. You were going to help me improve things around here.” 

“It’s fine here. You want things better, you fix it.” Sherlock almost snarled at Jim. So far, John had been far more interesting than Jim, and Sherlock wasn’t noted for his patience. 

“Oh, you are an animal aren’t you? I like that!” Jim was back to purring, and starting to slide his hands into Sherlock’s blanket. 

“If there’s nothing interesting about you, you can stop this act.” Now Sherlock let his irritation out, yanking Jim’s hands away. “And if I’d wanted to be pawed at, I’d have let Mummy set me up.” 

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m very interesting, if slightly changeable. Either way,” Jim continued, his voice climbing with each word. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me.” 

“You’re wearing fitted clothes, instead of something John provided. If you were injured in the sandstorm, you must have shielded your luggage with your body. You move without pain or thought, so I don’t think you have the same injuries I do. You’re rich, the clothes, yes, but you have manicured nails and cut hair. You’ve gone out of your way to dismiss John as a servant, almost as if you want me to think you’re the head of this house, but John doesn’t respect or fear you, so he wouldn’t work for you. For some reason, you seem to be trying to get me to magically pull better food from the air, so you must think I’m a sorcerer. Why you think I’m an idiot, I don’t know.” 

Jim jumped to his feet and started clapping, enthusiastically and with more honesty then he’d shown yet. “Bravo, darling. And trust me, intelligence is much harder to find than magical ability.” 

John returned, free of the cloak, and went back to filling his plate. Jim grinned and gestured to John. 

“A perfect example. No magic, no intelligence, John is just like everybody else: very, very boring. Have you imagined what it’s like in his tiny little mind?” Jim dropped his voice and slowed his words. “Eat, sleep, eat, sleep, oh where is my next meal coming from.” A dismissive gesture and Jim went back to how he normally talked. “Predictable, yes; necessary, probably, but we are so much **better** than that.” 

Sherlock knew he’d reacted, but hoped Jim’s pacing had prevented him from seeing it. John had narrowed his eyes, not understanding the word **better** in Jim’s sentence. Sherlock understood, knowing that the word had been spoken in the formal language of magic. Most practitioners only knew how to use the words when doing magic, but Mycroft had spent most of Sherlock’s childhood using it as a conversational language. It was enticing to hear another person speak it, and Jim was suddenly interesting after all. Sherlock turned to Jim, his food forgotten and interrupted Jim’s rambling. 

**“You might be right about that. Tell me more.”**

Jim faced Sherlock with a delighted grin, before stepping over to sit in Sherlock’s lap. “I knew you’d be fun once you loosened up.” 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ


	3. Learning

Time had no meaning here, and Sherlock learned to revel in it. He’d eat when John forced it on him, and sleep when his own body demanded it. Other than that, he talked to Jim. They exchanged spells, observations and ideas whenever they were awake. Jim knew the words of magic, but hadn’t had the chance to use them conversationally. He learned quickly though, proving himself more interesting with every new word. Mycroft and his mission were forgotten, as they’d never interested Sherlock at all, though Sherlock did send him the occasional message.

Sherlock couldn’t help but notice John, simply because the man lived there. He didn’t say much, unless Jim pushed him to tell a story, but he watched them. He never said anything about them conversing in a language he didn’t understand, which was so rude even Sherlock knew it. John disappeared for hours at a time, coming back with food or other necessary things. He always seemed busy, but would stop everything when a bell rang. A second ring would have him putting on that grungy cloak and leaving. 

The clothes John had produced for Sherlock were some of John’s that had been cut and re-sown to fit Sherlock’s frame. Jim had expressed disappointment that Sherlock wasn’t going around naked anymore, but Sherlock had noticed how well the clothes had been mended. John had taught himself to sew, but Jim could conjure clothes. John made tea, and Jim turned it into wine. John made nutritious, filling food and Jim taught Sherlock how to turn it into desserts or make it explode. Had Jim been ordinary, Sherlock knew he would have been puzzling out John and his strange behavior. John was interesting, but Jim was fascinating. 

Jim started pulling pranks on John, showing off for Sherlock, and Sherlock stood by and was visibly amused. Sherlock showed off his own skills of creating illusions, making jars that contained eyeballs and putting a human head in the fireplace. John would startle, get annoyed, and continue what he was doing. This reaction should have bored Sherlock, but he found himself seeing how far he had to push to get more of a reaction. 

The pranks found their way into their everyday lives, so Sherlock didn’t think anything would come of it. The next time John made stew, Sherlock positioned himself so he could see John’s face and made the man eat a bowl of eyeballs and wriggling worms. John had to repress a grin at the sight, and ate it. Sherlock was so fascinated by that, he ignored Jim, who was usually the center his of attention. Jim shot to his feet and glared down at Sherlock. When the differences in their height ruined this effect, Jim stood on the bench to have his strop. 

“If you’re going to ignore me in favor a peasant who eats worms, I’m going to my room. When you’re bored of that uncouth idiot, you’ll know where to apologize to me.” Jim stuck to their common language in order to let John and Sherlock know they had both displeased him. 

John didn’t seem particularly upset by this realization. “Want some eyeball stew, Sherlock? It’s best while the worms are still wriggling.” 

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked, amazed that he still didn’t know. Jim was really good at being the center of attention, even as John was an expert at blending in. A bell rang, and John shrugged. 

“Apparently, I’m busy.” He still waited for the second ring before standing. 

This time though, Sherlock could follow John through the wooden door on the other side of the kitchen. John closed the door, clearly not expecting Sherlock to follow. Sherlock waited until John was in the cloak and moving away from the door before following. The door led into a natural cave, which was the same temperature as the house. John was exiting into the nighttime, moonlight showing the scrubland that edged a desert. 

Sherlock waited in the shadows as John talked to the woman waiting there. She too was cloaked, as if afraid to be seen with John. She sniffed back tears, and John made a move to comfort her. He dropped his hand before it could touch her shoulder though, as if his comforting touch would have been unwelcome. He broke the silence, in a gentle voice Sherlock hadn’t heard him use before. 

“Is it the beatings or are you with child?” 

“Child.” She managed to stutter out, and John nodded. 

“I’ll be back in a moment.” 

As John turned toward the cave entrance, Sherlock pressed himself into the shadows. Just to be extra careful, he wove a quick spell to hide himself. John walked by without looking at him, and passed him again a few minutes later. He held out a small vial to the woman, but didn’t give it to her just yet. 

“Sally, he’s a right bastard and you deserve better.” 

“He owns me, no court will free me just because of how he treats me.” 

“No. But I have friends who can remove the trace. You could start a new life, find someone you’d like to have kids with or a job you want to do.” 

“I’m not strong enough for that.” 

“Yes you are, and I’ll be here when you realize it.” John handed over the vial, and Sally grabbed it. She turned and ran, leaving John to limp sadly back to the cave. 

Sherlock darted back inside, and removed the invisibility spell once he was in his room. Laying down and pretending to sleep, he started sorting through his observations of John. He’d noticed all these little things, but they would only make sense after he’d thought about them. 

John was always doing something, and apparently not just making food. Going over the ingredients John had on hand, Sherlock could determine what John was making. Home remedies, little potions made with things found in the home and requiring no magical input to work. Sherlock only had a general awareness of this type of thing as he could do real magic, but he’d often wondered about the effectiveness of herbal remedies. If John taught him how to make them, Sherlock could experiment to improve efficacy. 

Mixing the home remedies with the cloak, the mysterious meetings in the dead of night, and it was clear that John was the local witch. One didn’t need magic to be thought of as a witch in villages, but how had a relatively young man become the hunchbacked witch? Jim was interesting, but Sherlock decided he’d make the time to find out about John as well. The decision stayed with him, even after he fell asleep. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ

“I told you to get something decent to eat!” 

Sherlock froze as he stepped out of the bath room. He’d never gone to apologize to Jim for ignoring him last night, and now Jim was taking out his irritation on John. 

“And I asked you where and how. You still haven’t answered those questions.” John snapped back, clearly not intimidated by Jim. 

Sherlock ran to the kitchen, needing to at least warn John that he should be careful around a practitioner as powerful as Jim. It was hard to tell without the proper tests, of course, but Sherlock suspected Jim was a very powerful warlock, the highest rank available to practitioners. Mycroft was the only other one Sherlock had ever met, and Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to take the test himself. 

“Morning, I guess. It can be hard to tell without windows and daylight.” Sherlock said as he stepped into the kitchen, refocusing the energy in the room. 

“Sherlock, would you tell this man I need something substantial to eat?” Jim was pouting, bottom lip stuck out, as he said this. 

“Good luck with convincing Jim that things I can’t grow myself cost money.” John replied, as he fixed Sherlock some tea. 

“Why didn’t you say that was the problem?” Jim yelled, focused on John again. 

Sherlock put a magic shield over John, just in case, and spoke to Jim. “My money was destroyed or lost with my clothes and things. Do you have any, Jim? I’d like some milk in my tea.” 

“For you darling, I’ll buy the whole world.” Jim offered with a flirtatious smile, all anger gone in an instant. He bounced to his feet and ran down the hall, slapping Sherlock’s arse on his way by. 

“If he gets like that, you should wake me up.” Sherlock told John as he took the proffered tea. Sending out a magical probe, Sherlock saw that John lacked all protective magic, not even a small charm like most people carried. 

“Yeah, I’ll just come running to the apprentice when his master acts the arse.” 

“I’m not his apprentice.” Sherlock knew his knuckles would be white on the mug, but he didn’t care. Sherlock hadn’t enjoyed his apprenticeship, abandoning Wilkes two years into a twenty year contract and it was still a sore subject. 

“He thinks you are. Jim preens when you look at him and gets possessive if he sees me looking at you.” 

“I don’t want your filthy eyes dirtying up the brain of my darling virgin. You’re just lucky I need a **slave** , excuse me, servant, or I’d make sure you never saw again.” Jim offered with a smile, throwing a clinking bag at John. “While you’re out, get Sherlock some silk sheets, something dark to bring out the porcelain of his skin.” 

John’s hand was tight around the bag he’d reflexively caught and he was staring at Jim intensely. John was surprisingly observant, which meant he had to know Jim was a powerful sorcerer. Yet he was still considering bouncing the bag of coins off Jim’s head, and Sherlock was increasingly confused by John. 

“Actually, I’d like to go to town. See what it’s like, since I’m here and all.” 

“You don’t want to stay and play, since John won’t be here to chaperon?” Jim asked, hurt that Sherlock wouldn’t chose him over John every second of every day. 

“You’re healed, Jim.” John offered, anger in his voice. “You could go anywhere you wanted, anytime you wanted.” 

Jim snarled as he turned to John, and Sherlock stepped forward to put an arm around Jim’s shoulders. 

“Come on Jim, it’ll be fun. **We’ll go see all the boring people and I’ll remember just why I find you so singular and fascinating. I’ll be putty in your hands after that.** ”

“Oh, you tease! I’ll go see if I’ve got any more gold, so we can see about getting both of us outfitted in silks.” 

Jim left again, and John stared at Sherlock while they waited. John’s mobile, easygoing face was closed off and indecipherable. Sherlock didn’t like that look on John. Soon enough, Jim was holding Sherlock’s hand as they followed John into town. John was hidden in his cloak again, the sack across his back also under his cloak. 

John was very careful to ignore the people they came across as they got closer to town. The tense way he held himself said he didn’t like ignoring people, which made Sherlock think John was military after all. But once they were moving past the shacks that counted as houses in the poor parts of town, Sherlock had to change his mind. After all, no military man would ignore the small children and occasional adult who flung things at him. Rocks, rotten fruit and occasionally animal wastes added to the stains on John’s cloak. 

People laughed when John approached the open air stalls of the market, until he held out the shiny gold coins from Jim’s pouch; now people were willing to deal with him, but only if he didn’t stand in front of their stalls. The prices they demanded were clearly inflated for John alone, but he paid and thanked them for it. John was moving toward the milk stall when a man and his two bodyguards stopped him. 

“And here I thought that stench was the rotting boar guts.” The bodyguards laughed on cue, but John just stayed humbly bent. “What are you doing in town, coward?” 

John’s hand, clutching his cane, went white as he squeezed the handle. “Buying food, sir.” The sir was spat out like a mouthful of poison, and John’s body tensed up even more. 

“With what money?” The man sneered, but quickly came to a realization. “Are you stealing from your betters?” 

Sherlock looked to Jim, wondering if the man would say it was his money. Jim was grinning wolfishly, clearly enjoying the humiliation John was experiencing. Sherlock knew how it felt to be publicly humiliated; it was one of the many reasons he’d lost interest in his apprenticeship with Wilkes. Now, it was a reason for losing interest in Jim. Sherlock stepped forward, adjusting his voice to mimic Jim’s accent. He could do John’s now, too, but it would be better for his character to be a complete unknown. 

“I gave him the money. What of it?” 

“Who are you?” 

“Who are you?” Sherlock parroted back, confidently expecting an answer. At the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John shaking his head slightly. For whatever reason, he didn’t want Sherlock getting involved with this. 

“I’m the head of the local militia, and I don’t think you want to anger me.” 

Sherlock bowed humbly, an excuse to look the man over. He was tall, and the crowd around them was a various heights, so Sherlock _hadn’t_ invaded a land of short stature people. The rich man’s clothes were nice, but they’d seen better days. Besides being washed frequently, they were stained from the man sweating under the heat. The man’s hair was lank, and longer than John’s, so it could be a liability in a fight. He also had scrapped knuckles. He used to be rich, but couldn’t splurge on new clothes right now. He wasn’t a general, but he was in charge of the militia, so he was a puppet to take the blame with things went bad. He wasn’t even a fighter; his wounds were from beating servants, probably female ones. Sherlock stood, but let John’s tension keep him from speaking his observations. 

“Well now, as you’ve guessed, I’m not from here.” Sherlock continued in his impression of Jim. “I’m a traveler, and I needed a few things. I feared you might not understand me, my accent and all, so I asked the first man I saw to help me buy things. Have I been taken advantage of?” 

The man put his sweaty hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, ready to take the lost boy under his wing. “You have, most assuredly. This man is a coward and a scoundrel. He’d probably have killed you and robbed you, but only in your sleep.” 

“No!” Sherlock said, hoping he sounded like he didn’t believe it, instead of like he was contradicting what he’d been told. The man patted his shoulder, but finally removed his sweaty hand to point at John. 

“Go do as you were told, and meet us at the tailor’s stall when you’re done.” The man aimed a kick, but John avoided it easily as he left. Smiling at Sherlock, the man led him away. “Let me tell you of Wat, and his noble family ending with his son’s cowardice. I’m Ander’s son, by the way.” 

“James’ son.” Sherlock smiled, hoping Anderson wouldn’t notice his hesitation. He hadn’t planned on going off with this man, so he hadn’t decided on a name or background for his character. But now he had a chance to learn more about this place, and John Wat's son, even if what he learned was skewed by the biased storyteller. 

“Wat’s family was once made of strong warriors, but Wat must have been cursed. His first child was a girl, even though he was a strong man. Wat let her join the militia when she was old enough, and then had to drag his son in to protect her. During a fight, my father ordered an attack and Wat’s son was nowhere to be seen. Wat rushed in to protect his daughter, and they were both killed. Watson couldn’t account for when or where he was wounded in the shoulder, so it was decided he’d wounded himself to avoid a charge of cowardice. Father charged him anyway, and allowed me to administer the punishment.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock said, knowing from the way Anderson paused that he was supposed to say something. Sherlock also knew Anderson wouldn’t appreciate what Sherlock had to say. “But you didn’t take his leg, which I thought was standard punishment so he couldn’t run away again.” 

“Very true. I took pity on him, because I was very young myself.” Anderson tried to look wise and humble, but didn’t manage to. “It’s not a mistake I’ll make again.” 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Sherlock said, not meaning it the way Anderson thought he did. 

“Now, since we’re here, why don’t we see if we can find you something more appropriate than those peasant clothes?” 

Sherlock nodded, and let Anderson talk him into clothes. While he was trying on a linen shirt in a deep purple, he heard Anderson telling the clerk to inflate what Sherlock would be charged and put the extra toward Anderson’s bill. Sherlock was glad Jim had disappeared, taking the money with him. Now he’d be able to add whatever he picked out to Anderson’s bill or the man would lose face. 

It wasn’t too long before John showed up, the sack on his back stuffed full enough to give him a second lump. Unfortunately, he had enough money to pay Sherlock’s bill, inflated as it was. Anderson couldn’t get rid of Sherlock quickly enough after that, wanting Sherlock gone before he realized Anderson was stealing from him. A woman entered the shop and walked up to Anderson, and Sherlock recognized her as the woman from the cave. Sally was very careful to not look at John, but her lack of hate was a confession of its own. 

A quick spell and Sherlock took away Anderson’s ability to impregnate anybody. He’d still be able to have sex, because idiots got angry when that was taken away, but his bloodline of idiots and liars would end with him. Sherlock grinned all the way back to the cave, not too concerned that Jim wasn’t with them or in the cave. Sherlock was more concerned with the way John wouldn’t look at him. 

Sherlock had a strange impulse, and he had to think about it for a moment. Sherlock had used his magic on people who annoyed him, like Anderson, but usually he made a big deal of it. Told the subject of the spell and everybody who’d listen what he’d done and why. So why had he been so secretive about castrating Anderson? Sherlock wanted to make John feel better. 

“John, I know Anderson is wrong. He’s clearly an idiot and if his father was half as incompetent, it’s lucky you all weren’t killed in that fight.” 

John relaxed a little at Sherlock’s words, as he sectioned the meat he’d bought. 

“Even though it was the most likely career for you, it still surprised me that you were in the military. Though I do know you’re not a coward.” 

John kept his attention on cutting, not looking at Sherlock. 

“I’d like to hear your side of things.” 

“Could you build a fire? I’ll explain while you do.” John’s voice was soft enough that Sherlock could pretend not to hear it, but Sherlock jumped up. John went back to cutting as he told the meat his story. “Da was in charge of the fighters, but Ander was the politician. He got to say who we fought and when. And he somehow managed to get himself put in charge of tactics, instead of my Da, who’d fought in real armies, not just the local militia.” 

John stopped talking so he could switch out the now tiny chunks of meat for some vegetables that needed to be cut up. He didn’t say anything about the blazing fire Sherlock had started with a simple spell. 

“My sister adored Da, and wanted to be just like him. She was a very good fighter and most of the militia was happy to have her join. Anderson is two years younger than I and four years younger than Harriett. He felt that if she could join the militia, then by his father’s authority, she had to sleep with him. I was on the battlefield, so I missed it when Harry broke Anderson’s nose. Anderson paid some of his lackeys to kill her, but they attacked when she was telling Da what had happened. Da and Harry defended themselves, but were surprised and outnumbered. That’s what Sally told me anyway, before she was given to Anderson for bearing false witness against him.” 

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly understanding why John put up with so much. His humiliation made things easier on Sally; though Sherlock would have to think more on where repayment ended, and altruism or insanity began. Sherlock moved out of the way as John limped over to the fireplace. 

“Shouldn’t you find Jim, make sure he’s not getting into trouble?” 

“Probably, but I’d rather find out about you.” Sherlock said without thinking. 

“You’re the one worried about boredom.” John offered with a small shrug, making Sherlock grin before he replied. 

“I’m not interesting enough to let a jackass like Anderson almost chop off my leg.” 

“I caught a spear in the shoulder while dragging Stam of the Ford off the battlefield. As long as Stam lived here, Anderson couldn’t call me a coward. But, Stam’s a boatman and fled the coming desert. Anderson is the richest person left, because he doesn’t want to leave his position until he absolutely has to. But now, he can say whatever he wants.” 

“How did you get the leg wound then?” 

“Anderson sent a couple of his goons after me.” 

“They didn’t walk away at all, did they?” 

“Actually, they decided they should take me to Anderson. I don’t know why, but they thought I might be trouble.” John caught Sherlock’s eye, and they both laughed. 

“Not laughing at me, are you?” Jim asked as he slid into the room. He almost sounded playful, but there was an edge to it. 

Sherlock moved over to play interference, as he wondered at this impulse to protect John. “Jim dear, we were just bemoaning the fact you weren’t here and trying to come up with things to amuse you when you did show up.” 

“Very sweet Sherlock, but you know just how to make me happy.” 

A flirty Jim was a happy Jim, so Sherlock settled in for a night of flirting back. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ


	4. Fighting

Jim was difficult for Sherlock to predict, not just because of his mercurial moods, which changed even more rapidly over the next several days. Sherlock felt he’d be able to find a reason for Jim’s anger shifting into desire if he could more easily tell which emotions Jim felt and which he faked. Jim was always plotting how to get what he wanted, even though he let his emotions decide what those things were.

Sherlock hated his emotions, seeing them as distractions from his studies. Mycroft had said Sherlock was ruled by his emotions, while Mummy called him moody; Sherlock resisted both descriptions of him. Sherlock always had a good reason for what he did; even if the reason was fighting off the boredom that threatened to overwhelm his mind, there was a reason. 

But then there was John. 

Simple, honest John, who held back on expressing what he felt only when it would hurt an innocent. This selflessness puzzled Sherlock, and added to the confusion he felt about John. Jim, he could figure out with enough time, but Sherlock wasn’t sure the same could be said about John. Not that Sherlock put any of that into a message to Mycroft. He just described what he’d noticed about the town, the societal structure and Sally being made a servant for supposedly committing a crime. 

“What are you doing, beautiful?” Jim stuck his head past the curtain door, always so careful to keep an eye on Sherlock. 

“Sending a letter to my brother.” 

“Did you tell him about me? Good things, I hope.” 

“No, just a brief note to tell him I’m alive and to keep his large nose out of things.” Sherlock shoved the message to Mycroft, so he could focus on Jim. 

“Oh, don’t want to share me?” 

“Right.” He replied with an agreeing smile. 

Sherlock was learning a lot from Jim, so he wasn’t ready to part from him yet. Jim overlooked most of Sherlock’s rudeness, taking it as a sign of affection, but Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be long before Jim wanted more. Jim’s flirting wasn’t all innocent, and Sherlock had no interest in what would come next. Jim expected it, just as Wilkes had expected Sherlock’s body as his due. John was the only one who didn’t expect things of Sherlock, which made him comfortable to be around. The way Jim sat on Sherlock when he sat on the bed indicated that Jim’s expectations were about to be demonstrated. 

“Honey, I swear, you’ll only share me when you can watch.” 

Sherlock’s startled confusion was swallowed by a sloppy kiss. Jim probably thought it would be erotic and irresistible; Sherlock really wanted to wash his face. Jim started pushing Sherlock backwards, trying to get him on his back. Sherlock resisted, forcing himself to stand upright. Jim broke away to glare at Sherlock and was distracted by the familiar sound of John walking down the hallway. Jim’s glare shifted into a sexy grin. 

“Johnny boy knows better than to interfere in the pleasure of his guests.” 

Jim was right, and Sherlock suddenly hated John’s manners. If he thought they were both willing, he’d let Jim and Sherlock do pretty much anything. Which made Sherlock wonder what John would do if he thought Jim was forcing someone. 

“Attention!” The voice echoed in the hall outside, stopping John’s walk. It was the next word that helped Sherlock identify the voice as Anderson’s. “Marauder attack on the southwest border, all militia members report.” 

John started walking, his pace as quick as Sherlock had ever heard it. Sherlock thought this was a good reason to shove by Jim and head into the hallway. Jim started to protest but Sherlock was listening to Anderson repeat the message. A quick spell showed a small amulet hanging in the kitchen was making the noise; a receiver that picked up Anderson’s voice. John was reaching for a bag in the kitchen when his name was called. 

“Watson! Don’t bother bringing a sword, you know you’re just there to carry out the wounded like a good little mule.” 

John’s hand fisted, before he forced it to relax and grab the bag. He headed out and Sherlock was stopped from following by Jim’s hand on his arm. Jim was surprisingly strong for such a skinny man. 

“Baby, we’re all alone. Don’t you think it’s time we had some real fun?” 

“I want to go see the battle.” 

“You want to watch John play the mule.” 

“It’s not about John. I’m an academic; I’ve never seen a battle before.” 

“I could turn John into a mule, if it would get you to forget about him.” 

“I’m not interested in having sex with you. Get it out of your head and we can go back to doing something interesting. I’m going to watch the battle.” 

Sherlock stormed out, rather relieved when Jim didn’t follow him. John had a pretty good head start, considering his limp, so Sherlock decided to follow from a distance. A disguise spell let him blend into the other men rushing to the scene. They passed John soon enough, but he didn’t follow them into the battle field. Curious, Sherlock turned himself invisible a second before John stopped to look around. When he was sure he was unobserved, John climbed a tree, his bag and injury keeping his left hand from helping. 

Getting closer, Sherlock could see rungs had been nailed to the tree, leading up to an observation platform. The platform, which would have been better hidden if most of the trees weren’t dead from the changing weather, had a clear view of the battle. Anderson was already up there, holding his amulet out from his chest. Sherlock climbed the tree silently and slowly, so by the time he was close enough to hear John and Anderson, they were working. 

John watched the battlefield, calling out tactics to Anderson, who’d repeat them into the amulet. Even as Sherlock tried to work out how Anderson was getting this cooperation out of John, he wondered at the hidden depths to the man. John wasn’t a stonemason or a farmer, or even cannon fodder for the military. He seemed to be a little bit of everything, doing what he had to and learning from it all. Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when John started to stand. A quick look showed the battle was over and the militia had routed the marauders. John was almost to the ladder when his name was called. Sherlock stopped too, where he’d started down the ladder to keep out of John’s way. 

“Watson, if you mouth off to anybody, even your new friend from Erieland…”

“I know, you won’t let me help the wounded after the next fight.” It was a functioning blackmail attempt that knew just how to get John to cooperate, yet he just sounded tired when he said it. “Can I go now?” 

“If you’re in my way as I go down, I’ll kick you off.” Anderson said with a smile, quite happy at the thought. 

John started working his way down the ladder and only muttered his reply when he was out of Anderson’s earshot. “You won’t be down for another hour, since you pass out at the sight of blood.” 

Sherlock paused before following John to the battlefield and put a spell on every third board nailed to the tree. They’d lose substance whenever Anderson, and only Anderson, touched them, to help him on his way down. On the battlefield, John was working his way between the wounded, doing what he could to help. Some got bandages and some got potions, all pulled from his large bag. 

Sherlock stayed off to the side and decided to make John his own bag of holding. A nice coat would be a good repayment for the care and attention he’d received since John had found him. Sherlock had to make himself a new one anyway, since his had been lost in the sandstorm. He didn’t think the deep purple with gold trim of his former coat would suit John. 

Though a soldier and witch, John still spoke of comfort and ease to Sherlock. A blue color, something deep and yet as happy and clear as John’s eyes, would work. He couldn’t trim it with gold, though, as too much of John already was that color. Even the little gold circlet Sherlock’s rank allowed him to wear would just blend into John’s variegated hair. 

“Oh, I see,” hissed a voice in Sherlock’s ear. 

Considering Sherlock was still invisible, he would have known who it was even if he didn’t know the voice. “Jim, you missed the fighting.” 

“Yes, the fighting. Because this was absolutely not about watching plain, ordinary, boring John.” 

“The fight is over; John’s the only thing left to watch.” 

“Right.” Jim’s voice was free of emotion and Sherlock felt real worry at the sound. 

He turned to Jim, but Jim disappeared in a puff of smoke. Sherlock started to follow, but paused. He couldn’t be in two places at once, and if Jim were angry with Sherlock, he’d take that anger out on John. Ordinary, extraordinary John, who had no idea what was under his roof. Staying with John was the best way to protect him, so Sherlock had to stay. 

Invisible, he watched as John made sure the wounded were treated and sent home. John stayed, bearing the grief of the families who came to collect the two dead men. Solidly, he took the blame for their deaths, even though his tactics saved countless lives. The first family screamed at him, the second showed a propensity towards violence that the militia should make more of an effort to recruit. But they aren’t Jim, who Sherlock suspects can be very cruel but has no proof. Sherlock let the widow slap John, and the son kick at his shins, before following John home. 

John walked slowly and headed directly for the bath. He emerged a while later, and solemnly repacked his bag of supplies, readying it for the next attack. Sherlock made a production of entering, yawning and stretching as if he’s been asleep all day instead of invisibly following John. John gave him a suspicious look, but began to prepare a meal as he spoke. 

“Sherlock, since you’re not from here…”

“Being from Erieland, as I am.” 

“Right. I thought I should tell you some more of the local folklore.” 

“Not really my area of expertise, but go ahead.” 

“Not factual enough for you, I know. I remember some great stories from my childhood, but the scariest one I’ve ever heard is pretty new. Imagine a spider web, going from the western mountains, the ones you’re not from, all the way to the ocean in the east. It covers everything, as far north and south as we’ve ever explored. What kind of spider do you think would live in such a web?” 

“Bigger spiders need bigger webs to catch more prey and sustain their bulk, assuming that as a magical creature it’s not limited to the realm of the possible.” 

“I’m beginning to think it’s actually a tiny spider. I think it’s made all these other spiders build the web for it, using magic to force all the other spiders to do what it wants.”

“That would be an amazing spider; very intelligent.” 

“Intelligent, and lacking all compassion. Because everywhere that web touches, things die. The marauders who attacked? Ten years ago, it would have been a few bandits, but now they are a large, organized group. I’ve seen these tiny changes everywhere, with people like Anderson always winning. I should tell you, I haven’t always lived in a cave. I did some traveling when I was young, so I’m not just talking about this place.” 

“You were injured after you came back; why did you come back?” 

“I got word that my mother died, and she’d always wanted me to settle down. I came back to do that, but I don’t think she meant for me to settle quite this much.” 

“If you weren’t so settled, what would you do?” 

“I’d find this spider, Moriarty, and burn his nest.” 

Sherlock stared, wondering if he was insane or if he could really touch the conviction in John’s voice. 

“Johnny!” Jim called from the other side of the wooden door, and John glared at the door. “Come here, Johnny boy; I’ve brought you a gift!” 

“I’ll go see what he wants.” Sherlock said, standing. He only just beat John to the door, opening it while feeling John behind him, deciding John was quick to move when angered. Sherlock filed that tidbit away, knowing it might come in handy if John ever got really angry at him. Jim was blocking his gift with his body, and the light from the mouth of the cave wasn’t good enough to make out anything. 

“Sherlock, with you standing in the doorway, Johnny boy can’t see his gift.” 

A sigh at his back was confirmation that John was forced to agree with Jim on this, so Sherlock cautiously stepped into the cave and aside. Once John could see, Jim danced out of the way and magically lit the cave. A headless body was hanging in the air behind where he’d been standing, its back to them. As it slowly rotated, the innards waved like a skirt, pouring out from the cuts to his stomach. 

Sherlock wasn’t expecting this, but recovered quickly because his studies had included anatomy. John, used to the battlefield, recovered an instant quicker and rushed Jim. John had Jim against the cave wall, cane at his throat before Sherlock could get a protective shield over John. Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s shoulder and tried to pull him away. Sherlock’s left hand pried the cane up so Jim could breathe, just a little. 

“Leave off, Sherlock!” John shouted, kicking out with his bad leg and clipping Sherlock on the shin. 

“John, let him breathe, so he can explain.” 

“What’s to explain? That man was eviscerated while he was alive, you can tell by the blood patterns.” 

Sherlock surprised himself by taking another look at the body; lots of blood on the body itself, but none around the neck. Did that mean the head was taken after the man was dead? 

“Very good Johnny! Maybe that’s what Sherlock sees in you. You’re very right; he didn’t want to give up his head, so I had to get creative with my convincing.” 

Sherlock let go of John’s cane, and John went back to cramming it into Jim’s throat. Sherlock considered the body again. Naked, so no clues there. Headless, so no hair. Tall, not very muscular, but had a belly before it was sliced open. What about the hands? Scrapped knuckles from punching, roughed up palms and forearms from doing something he wasn’t used to or callused against. Punching, but not a fighter; hands roughed up from grabbing at a tree he was falling from. 

“Jim, is that Anderson?” Sherlock asked, moving the cane once again, though he had to supplement his arm strength with a little magic this time. 

“Sherlock, you surprise me. I wouldn’t think you’d spent enough time with him to recognize him naked. Or am I the only one you won’t get on your knees for?” 

“Jim’s a sorcerer, John; I don’t think you’ll be able to kill him with a cane.” 

“You going to let me try?” John asked in the same voice he’d asked about Sherlock’s method of taking tea. 

“Yes.” 

Jim snarled and shoved out magically. The blast knocked Sherlock off his feet and John several feet away from Jim. Sherlock tossed a bolt of energy at Jim as he scrambled to his feet, but it bounced off Jim’s shields. Jim sent a spell at Sherlock, disorienting him where he stood. When Sherlock had recovered from his vertigo, once again able to tell up from down, Anderson’s body was on the floor. John rotated in his place, a gag in his mouth. Sherlock readied a spell to free him, but felt the cage around him before he could work the spell. 

“Mage cage! One of my little inventions I haven’t got around to showing you. Yet. And there will be a yet, won’t there Sherlock?” 

“What do you want, Jim?” 

“I could really go for a carrot cake. Bet Johnny would tell us it was good for the eyes or something, if I wanted to hear his whiny voice. Oh, that’s what I want! Sherlock, **tell me what it is about him that’s got your interest. He’s so normal.”**

**“He’s not normal. I lived with normal people for a long time, eighteen years while I avoided my apprenticeship. I can tell you all about normal people at a glance. I could have told you that** Anderson **was in love with** Sally. **He beat her because she didn’t love him back. She despised him because he was married and still sought to seduce her heart, even forcing her into his bed. I know you,** Jim. **You don’t care about anybody or anything but yourself. You flirt with me and try to seduce me, but only because you want something. I don’t know what that thing is, but I know you’ll forget about me as soon as you get it.”**

“Forget about you? Darling, I’ll never forget you. Sure, when I felt your presence in this hovel, I was just going to find out all about you and suck out your magic, but not anymore. I want you to be my apprentice, my toy, my pet, whatever I feel like. I’ll even let you keep John as your own little pet.” 

Sherlock glance at John, who looked to be asleep. He was still breathing and Sherlock decided he must have missed it when Jim put John to sleep. No point in using the magic language to spare John’s feelings about hearing the details, then. “That’s a generous offer, but I don’t think John would accept.” 

“Nobody asks their dog if they want their balls removed, but it does make them ever so docile.” Jim made a motion like scissors with his hand, and John’s clothes crumpled off his body. Jim snickered, and John didn’t react at all. “Poor little soldier boy. Show him some real magic and he passes out.” 

Sherlock knew better. He’d seen John react to worse things than being suspended in midair, and fainting hadn’t been his response. So if Jim hadn’t put John to sleep, why did John have his eyes closed? Apparently, Anderson had the answer, as his body stood. Sherlock stepped back, pressing against the mage cage. Jim shrieked in surprise, before he started clapping. 

“Bravo, Sherlock! I’ve never seen a headless reanimated corpse; that’s incredible. You’ll have to show me that little trick, and how you got it to work when my mage cage should have reflected all your spells back on you.” 

Sherlock knew better than to admit the truth to Jim; he just hoped the corpse would cooperate. “It’s a corpse, Jim. You can’t hurt it anymore, and you can’t stop it. Even the dead tend to dislike the person who turned them into a corpse.” 

The body had been moving slowly, cumbrously towards Jim all this time, but now raised its arms in a parody of a hug. Jim stepped backwards, putting the cave wall at his back. The corpse kept coming, so Jim sent a bolt of energy into it. The body shook and hesitated, but stepped forward. Jim tried another spell, and another but the corpse wouldn’t stay stopped. 

The lights in the cave dimmed, and finally disappeared as Jim needed the power to keep the corpse from touching him. Sherlock felt the lines of energy that made up his cage waver, but John fell first. Anderson’s body fell on Jim then, and in his panic Jim let the cage go. Sherlock jumped to John, and tossed a protective spell over them both. John’s eyes were open but he looked tired. Jim managed to shove the body off of him where it fell to the floor and lay still at last. Panting and exhausted, Jim set fire to the body and turned to Sherlock in the light provided. 

“I see you’ve chosen the peasant again.” 

“You’re a madman, and you’re still kind of boring.” 

Jim shrieked in rage and made to throw a plasma bolt at Sherlock. It fizzled on the end of his hand, and Sherlock realized what had happened before Jim did. Dropping the shield over himself, but leaving John protected, Sherlock started firing offensive spells at Jim. Having no magical energy left to fight with, Jim turned and ran. Just outside the cave entrance, he paused to yell back at them. 

“I’ll find my own soldier and show you!” 

Sherlock fought back the urge to laugh and turned to John, pulling out the gag. “Are you going to let him replace you like that?” 

“Probably.” John answered softly, not moving. 

“Come on John. Let’s go kill your spider.” 

“You think he’s Moriarty, too?” 

“It makes sense.” 

“How’d he get injured then?” 

“He had different wounds, right?” 

“You had abrasions from the sand ripping off your skin. Jim had holes, tiny pinpricks, like the blood was pulled from him by thousands of briars. Made no sense.” 

“With what you know about bodies, and I know about people, we’d be unstoppable together.” 

John smiled, tongue dancing out to wet his lips. “Go around and solve murders or something?” 

“I was thinking for the fun of it, but solving crimes is good to.” 

John gave a small laugh, and let his eyes close. 

“John, we need to go after Jim. Now’s not the time for napping.” Sherlock thought about his words after he’d said them. Why did he expect John to go with him? 

“Before you go after him, get food and supplies.” John’s words seemed slow, and Sherlock let John have his full attention; he’d worry about the reasons why later. 

“John, what are you doing?” 

“I’m dying, Sherlock.” 

“What? You’ve survived worse than that fall.” 

“Landed on a rock. It’s a cave you know. Sharp rock, and now I can’t move. I think I broke my backbone.” 

“How do you work the amulet? I’ll call your army healer… Oh, oh John!” Sherlock understood, and never before had it hurt to know what was going on. 

“Sherlock?” 

“You’re the healer. Anderson started to take your leg, as punishment for cowardice, but fainted at the blood. His men patched you up, since they didn’t have a healer. Idiots didn’t know you were a healer!” 

“A healer can’t heal self. Rules.” John probably would have shrugged, if his shoulders still responded to commands. 

“But the village thinks you’re a witch, not a healer.” 

“Boils are boring.” John’s lips quirked, even now throwing Sherlock’s favorite complaint back at him. 

“You came back, after your training. Wanted to follow your father’s footsteps, do something interesting until the local healer retired. The desert cropped up, the healer died or moved on, just before you were injured. Alone and suspicious, you disguised yourself as a witch so you could help, but undercover to avoid the boring stuff. You wouldn’t leave because you hadn’t anywhere to go, and you felt like Sally was your responsibility.” 

“Still amazing.” John opened his eyes to stare at Sherlock. 

“You’re amazing, doing all that for other people.” 

“You’re brilliant.” 

“If I was brilliant I would have found room in my brain for healing spells.” 

“Brilliant, not a god. Beautiful though, like a statue of a god.” 

“John, you’re starting to ramble. I’m trying to think here.” 

“Jim would have sucked out your brilliance, like a brain leech. Jim the leech.” John tried to laugh, but it was a sad wheezing sound. 

“Leech? Oh, John, you’re brilliant!” Sherlock dropped down beside John, and slapped his face gently to focus his attention. “John, I want you to think about what you’d do for a patient with your injuries. Got it?” 

“Yeah. Run the current to the blocks.” 

Sherlock had no idea what that meant, but trusted John did. “Good John, now hold that in your mind and ignore me completely.” 

“Hard to ignore, such magnificence.” 

“Silence. Think about healing. Close your eyes and think about healing that guy with your injuries.” 

“Help the poor guy, because this is awful.” 

Working a spell of his own, Sherlock concentrated on what he wanted and leaned over to kiss John. Kissing John was distracting, so Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about taking John’s powers. The parasite spell would pull out John’s power, but the contact of the kiss was the best way to pull out the knowledge of how to use John’s gifts; sort the information out, send the energy back into John’s body, and heal him. And if Sherlock tilted his head, it was for better extraction; it wasn’t to deepen the kiss. Sherlock wasn’t interested in these things, hadn’t been since before Wilkes had demanded fellatio in public. 

John was interesting, but Sherlock knew all about him now. No mystery in the man who’d been born a healer in a family of fighters and found healing too tame. He’d probably come out of this kiss, healed and be all grateful, pledging his life to protect Sherlock. Sherlock really didn’t need that kind of devotion. 

The hands in Sherlock’s hair were the first sign that John was just like everybody else, ready to submit to his savior. Guilt and repayment to Sally had kept John as a poverty stricken outcast, so what would he give up to repay Sherlock? Stopping the spell, Sherlock had to let the magic settle for just a moment before moving. Not a standard protocol, but Sherlock felt it was necessary in this case, as John’s tongue explored his mouth. Without Sherlock actively pulling the magic out, John would be able to use it again. 

Sherlock could move away, could break the kiss at any time. Or he could stay like this. Mummy would be pleased if he brought home a suitor, especially a healer. Mycroft would be thrilled that John kept a reserve of magic instead of constantly pulling it from the elemental sources. 

“Oh!” Sherlock broke the kiss, jerking upright. A second later and he was pacing as he worked it out. “John! You were so right; Jim, Moriarty, is a spider and a leech. He’s found a way to pull magic from the Earth, instead of letting it fill him naturally. My brother was always going on about keeping a reserve, but Jim didn’t do that. He felt he didn’t need to, with so much power around him. So when Anderson’s corpse wouldn’t die, it distracted him. He lost his connection with his power source, and ran out of energy. The desert! John…”

Sherlock turned to ask, but was distracted by what he saw. John had gotten to his feet and was walking away from Sherlock, but he wasn’t limping. There was a vicious scar on his left shoulder, and when he turned around Sherlock could see the other half of the wound as well. His left thigh was scarred, showing where a large chunk of flesh had been missing a short while ago. But John’s face stole Sherlock’s attention. He was beaming, lighting up the cave, and making himself look years younger. 

Sherlock smiled back, thinking about how much he’d enjoy having this happy version of John bound to him for life. 

“If this is what a kiss from you can do, I don’t think I can handle any more than that.” 

“What?” Sherlock asked in genuine surprise. “Aren’t you going to pledge your life to me for saving yours?” 

“Ah, no. You didn’t when I saved your life in the desert; didn’t think it was a thing your people did.” 

“Oh, the desert! It’s been growing over the past ten years or so, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Jim’s been leeching the magic out of the land, that’s why it’s dying. We stop Jim, the land will heal itself!” 

“See, you’re brilliant! How do we kill him?” 

“We’ll find a way, once we get him.” 

“Let me get some clothes and supplies. Wait! Jim didn’t go inside, after all this, did he?” 

“No, not even magically. Why?” 

“He left some stuff here. Might help us find him.” 

“Show me!” 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˉ\\(ɂ)/ˉ


	5. Loving

Sherlock bounded into the cave house, possibilities whirling through his head. Jim probably wouldn’t make the same mistake again, so they’d have to find a way to cut him off from the elemental sources and use up his reserves of strength. A corpse army would help, once he figured out how Anderson had done that. Sherlock stopped, took in his surroundings and went back to the kitchen. He’d darted down the hallway, intending to go to Jim’s room and look at what he left behind. Now, he watched John step back from where he’d been touching the walls on either side of the door.

The locked door, Sherlock saw; a quick reveal spell showed John had quarantined his house. An advanced healer’s spell, the quarantine would alert anyone around to avoid the house and lock the inhabitants in until John turned it off. There had to be ways around it, but Sherlock had never been quarantined before and had no practice with defeating healer spells of this level. 

“Why?” 

John sighed, but he didn’t pretend not to understand as he turned to Sherlock. “You’ll fall.” 

“Fall or fail?” 

“Fall, not fail. I know you can take Jim down, now that you know what he’s like. I believe in you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock didn’t know how to reply to that, so he gestured for John to explain more. 

“You’ve just been involved in a major fight, after which you took on my magic to heal me. You feel godlike right now, but that feeling will disappear in an instant. I know about these falls; I got them after every battle. I’m just locking you in until you rest, and eat. I’ll still track Moriarty with you, afterwards, if you want me to.” 

“Of course you’re coming with me, don’t be obtuse. We need to go through Jim’s stuff and go after him, not hang around for tea.” 

“Actually, a cup of tea would be great. I’ll put the kettle on while you go through Jim’s stuff in his room. Just be careful, look for curses on anything he touched.” 

“I’m not an idiot.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and saw John step up to the fireplace. Naked John, seeming unconcerned with his muscular arse exposed to the air. “Are you going to put clothes on?” 

“Yes, while the kettle heats. Are you going to stare at my naked body or go through Jim’s effects?” 

John’s voice was clearly joking, but Sherlock found himself thinking about it. John wasn’t shy, used to the close quarters of fighters in the field. Working as a healer would have gotten rid of any residual concern about seeing naked people, but Sherlock was a different story. He’d never been interested in naked, living people and the things they did together. So why was he still standing here, watching John put on the kettle? 

“Um, Sherlock?” John asked, as he turned and found Sherlock blocking the doorway. 

“You want to know why I’m still here, not going through Jim’s things?” 

“Yes.” 

“I find I’d rather look at your naked body. Did you infect me with lust somehow?” 

John laughed, but Sherlock knew it wasn’t the cruel laughter at his expense that he was used to from other people. 

“How do I know you’re not laughing at me?” 

“I am laughing at you.” John sent back, amusement still in his eyes. “Lust isn’t a fever, but you certainly didn’t get it from me.” 

“I didn’t get it from Jim!” 

“I guess crazy doesn’t turn you on, but I haven’t,” John paused to clear his throat and look back at the fire. “I haven’t been able to infect anyone since Anderson butchered my leg.” 

“You’re still the most interesting person I’ve ever met.” 

John faced Sherlock again, surprised and pleased at the complement. Sherlock threw his hands in the air. 

“And now I find myself trying to make you feel better. What did you do to me?” 

“You can’t suck basic compassion out of someone with a kiss, no matter how much magic you have, or I would have snogged Jim when I first thought he was Moriarty.” 

Sherlock saw that in his mind’s eye; Jim sitting on John’s lap as they kissed. Sherlock didn’t see himself cross the room to John, or grab John’s shoulders. “I feel jealousy now, John?” 

As wide as John’s eyes were, it was startling to see the black crowd out the blue. “Sherlock, it’s the fall talking. Let me go, we’ll get some sleep and you’ll forget all about me.” 

“I don’t want to forget about you, I want to understand you.” 

“You do, you know everything about me! You make me feel like I’m worth knowing.” A blush sprouted in John’s face, he was clearly embarrassed about saying that out loud. 

“Exactly!” Sherlock let go of John’s shoulders to the express himself by throwing his hands in the air. “You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. You distracted me from a crazy man with massive amounts of power, something I should have given all my attention to. And yet you don’t think you’re anything. How does that make sense?” 

“Sense doesn’t have much to do with lo… lust.” It was a tiny stutter, one most people wouldn’t have noticed. Before John could pray to whatever deity might be listening, he heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of air. 

“You’re in love with me.” It was a statement of fact and John couldn’t have denied it even if Sherlock had let him try. “That’s why you didn’t kick Jim out after he healed; you figured I’d leave too. You let him belittle you, insult you and play jokes on you, just so you could be with me, never expecting anything to come of it.” 

“You didn’t want Jim, that was clear to everyone except him. I just wanted to be around you.” 

“Why? I let him treat you like that. I never tried to stop it. I even pulled a few pranks on you, so why did you want me to stay?” 

“I’d like to be able to say I saw you were a better man than Jim, or that there was no malicious intent behind the things you did.” John shrugged, seeming to feel that was an adequate response. 

“You’d like to say those things, but you didn’t.” Sherlock probed as gently as he could. He was completely out of his depth with this thing, whatever it was. 

“Reason doesn’t have much to do with love. Maybe I saw in you what I wanted to see.” John stepped around him, moving toward the hallway. “I’ll get over it.” 

Sherlock ran to John, turning the man until his back was pressed against the wall of the cave. “I won’t let you get over it. Me. Whatever this thing is between us, I won’t let you get over it because I think I love you too.” 

“You’re falling off the magic, it’s messing with you.” John was quietly trying to bring reason back into the situation, despite the regret in his eyes. 

Sherlock knew how it felt to use up so much magic that he’d collapse to the floor and stay there for days on end. Sherlock knew how to deal with people infatuated with him: caustic words and letting his personality shine through drove them away. John had grown to love him despite those things and didn’t expect anything in return, not even friendship. Sherlock had no idea how to deal with John, except to join him. 

A quick chaste kiss on his lips was supposed to give Sherlock a clue as to what to do next, not develop into a repeat of what they’d done on the cave floor. John’s hands were suddenly in his hair again, as if drawn there by magic, and if felt good. Sherlock hated people touching his hair, but not John. Sherlock twisted his head and felt a spark of pain at the unusual motion. 

“Why do you have to be so short?” He muttered against John’s mouth as he pulled magic into his arms. John started to mutter back a response, but being lifted up by Sherlock distracted him. With John at the right height, Sherlock moved in and found he wasn’t the only one hard. He broke the kiss to pull back a little and smirk at John; he couldn’t help it. 

“Not a word.” John said sternly, before attacking Sherlock’s neck with his mouth. His hands dipped down to pull Sherlock out of his pants and open his tunic. John clearly thought it was unfair he was naked while Sherlock was fully dressed. 

Once the cool air hit his cock, Sherlock decided he was naked enough and pressed forward again. His hands were holding John up and with John distracting him he couldn’t call up a spell to hold John for him. John proved he was clever enough to figure this out and brought both his hands between them. Holding their cocks together, John used his left hand to twist and pull on the shafts. His right teased the heads, doling out precum to help the left hand stroke. 

Sherlock decided he’d marvel at John’s coordination later and just _felt_ what John was doing to him. Sherlock had touched himself before, experimented with a few of the suitors Mummy sent him, but none of that had felt like this. John would know why if only Sherlock could properly ask, and he should warn John that he was close. Except, he wasn’t close, he was there and spilling into John’s hands, mind still and quiet. 

As his awareness slowly began to return to the world around him, it was to see John staring back at him, his expression perfect for what Sherlock was feeling. Enough reality had finally intruded for Sherlock to ask himself what he intended to do now. 

“Tea?” John asked a breath before the whistle sounded. 

Sherlock smiled as he let John down, hoping it would always be this easy and comfortable with John. 

“Always, John.” 

“Huh?” John asked, glancing over as he put the tea leaves in the strainers. 

“I want tea with you, always, for the rest of time.” 

John paused, holding the kettle over the cups for a long moment. A heavy breath let him move again, and he finished pouring the water. He turned back to Sherlock and opened his mouth to speak. Suddenly his eyes lost focus, and the words that came out were matched with his grab for his sword. 

“Someone’s trying to break quarantine.” 

Sherlock fixed his clothes as he brought his spells for fights to the forefront of his mind. Healers didn’t have defensive or offensive magic, which is why John had learned to use the sword, and permanent charms could interfere with healing spells. Jim had used plasma bolts, so Sherlock put a shield over John. The magic filling up the small kitchen didn’t feel like Jim, though, as he threw around his power as if it was limitless. This power was controlled, even stretched thin, as if it had been sent over a distance. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted the name before the man fully appeared, but John kept his sword at the ready. The figure formed into a person in a black cloak as Sherlock spoke. “John, it’s my brother, Mycroft. It would really annoy Mummy if you killed him.” 

“Not to mention how much it would annoy you to take my job.” Mycroft spoke to Sherlock, though he was staring at John. As Mycroft finished transporting in, John returned the sword to its sheath. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I should think that was obvious, Sherlock.” Mycroft finally turned to look at Sherlock, an unexpected gleam in his eye. “Though this man shows signs of having found a way to distract your mind.” 

Sherlock looked to John, who looked down at himself. The evidence of their recent coupling was visible on his stomach, not quite dry. John’s blush was even more noticeable when all of his pale skin was on display. He turned away to grab a rag and clean at himself, while Sherlock glared at Mycroft and ran a cleaning spell over his clothes. 

“You were watching me, even though you know I hate that.” 

“It was only a simple spell, keeping me aware of your continued health, until the quarantine spell interfered.” 

“You didn’t show up when I was injured.” 

“By the time that magic storm ended, you were already stable and sleeping. I believed it would be better to leave you alone.” 

“You were right then, now go away.” 

“No.” John blushed again as his word got both of their attentions focused on him. He tried to cover himself with the damp rag, but had something he felt he had to say. “Sorry, but I’d like to know more about the magic storm that injured Sherlock. I think Sherlock interfered with something Moriarty was doing in the desert, which was how Moriarty got injured. Have some tea, I’ll go get dressed and we can talk.” 

“My brother’s letters, infrequent though they were, did not give me much desire to have tea with you, James.” 

John’s eyes darted over to Sherlock. As one, they started laughing. Mycroft showed his annoyance by selecting a cup of tea and magically testing it for poison while they regained control of themselves. Moving to John’s side, Sherlock slid an arm around his waist. John grinned up at him, which faulted as his eyes lost focus. 

“Another one?” Sherlock asked, reaching out with his own magic before John nodded back. One touch of his magic and Sherlock knew who it was, magically jerking back and physically stepping in front of John. This might have been a mistake, as John immediately turned, grabbing for his sword again, but Sherlock didn’t have time to say anything before the second guest coalesced. 

“Mummy.” Mycroft said calmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

“Mummy?” John queried from behind Sherlock. 

“Mummy.” Sherlock confirmed, sensing John relinquish his hold on his sword. 

“No kiss for Mummy, Sherlock?” 

“Not just this second?” 

Mummy didn’t like Sherlock’s answer, but didn’t say so. Instead she reached out with her magic and pulled. 

“No, please, Mummy!” Sherlock called, even as he walked to her other side. He hated leaving John exposed but he’d always been powerless against Mummy. When he was at her side, she released the spell and he could have walked away. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, above the cheekbone that matched his. “Mummy, Mycroft, this is John.” 

John managed to look exasperated and embarrassed at the same time, as he kept both hands and the rag over his groin. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Did you quarantine my son?” 

John started to shrug, but turned it into a tense set of his shoulders when he remembered what he was hiding. 

“John,” Mycroft spoke before John could find the words; he had other things to be doing and wanted to move this along. “That rag fails you by several inches.” 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock found only the one word came to him. He wasn’t sure if he should advocate for Mycroft to be nice or for John to get rid of the stupid rag. 

“Sherlock, darling boy, have you found a suitor?” Mummy understood far more than she should have from that one shout at Mycroft. 

“John’s a warrior and a healer. He quarantined us so I would rest after, well… there was a magic fight.” 

“He knew you well enough to know you wouldn’t do as you should, so he locked you in?” 

“Yes, but...” Sherlock felt he should defend John, explain why John was so interesting, but he didn’t know how. 

“Actually, Sherlock, he sounds exactly like what you need.” Mummy smiled at him before stepping over to wrap her long arms around John. At the first contact of skin on skin, she jumped back as if burned, and John yelped, not having any room for jumping away. 

“Fae!” Mummy cried out. 

“Maleficent!” John named her. 

“What?” Mycroft and Sherlock asked. 

Mummy threw out her hands, primal energies charging the room around her. She seemed to grow too tall to fit into the room, pulling all the light to her. John dove to his side, reaching not for his sword but a dusty glass vial. Sherlock knew his best shields would never stand against Mummy, so he slid under her arm and stood between her and John. 

“Sherlock.” Her voice was commanding and cruel, like Sherlock had only heard her once before. 

That situation had not ended well for anyone involved, so Sherlock figured he had one shot to get through to her. One move, before she moved him out of her way, so it had better be a good move. Stepping backwards, Sherlock collided with John and wrapped his hands around him. John started struggling, needing room to meet his death, and Sherlock smiled. He didn’t say the words out loud, knowing everyone nearby would feel what he was about to do. Sherlock worked the old spell and felt his body die. 

Reality wavered around Sherlock, as he blinked his eyes open. He could feel a body under his back, John forcing himself to breathe deeply. Mummy and Mycroft stared down at him with matching frowns, and Sherlock found he didn’t remember falling to the floor, though John was surprisingly comfortable. 

“ **Explain yourself.** ” Mummy demanded with enough magic in her words to force him to comply. 

“John, son of Wat,” came out of Sherlock’s mouth before Mummy narrowed her eyes at him. She saw through his stalling technique, so Sherlock gave up on it. The stall wasn’t for Mummy anyway; he wanted privacy to explain things to John, so he shifted to the language John didn’t know. 

**”He is my heart now, you felt the shift. Give John a chance, show how much you’ve changed since the Fae abandoned you.”**

**“That’s not the story I heard.”** John muttered behind Sherlock, his words slow as he spoke in the language of magic for the first time. 

Sherlock rolled to his knees and around, the better to peer down at John. “Since when can you understand that?” 

“Healers use the same vocabulary.” 

“Listening to Jim and I taught you how to make it a language, but you never said anything because you like to know what we were talking about behind your back.” 

“Soldier.” 

“Heart.” Sherlock countered, tapping the skin over the organ in question. 

“Still don’t know what you mean by that.” 

“I should think that was obvious to anyone with training under the Fae folk.” Mummy sneered as she turned to walk away. 

“I didn’t study with them.” John snarled back, his irritation forcing its way to the surface. “They kicked Gran out for marrying my Gaffer; I wouldn’t have gone to them if you paid me.” 

“See Mummy? He’s only a quarter Fae, as Mycroft and I are half breeds. I wouldn’t do this lightly.” 

“Hush, Sherlock.” 

The words sounded like a request, but Sherlock still found himself unable to make a sound. He loved Mummy, but this power over him was why he had to leave her and make his own way in the world. John needed answers, and Sherlock could only wait as Mummy talked. 

“John, let me explain to you what Sherlock has done. There is a spell as old as time, one that is hardly ever used. Most of the time it was performed, a trusted servant would give his life to his king. Enemies of the king couldn’t kill him, or harm him as long as that servant remained safe. But the spell was double-sided, as harming the servant would hurt them both. Sherlock, like the king, has just given you, the servant, his life force, his heart and he will only live as long as you do.” 

“What? Sherlock, you take it back this instant!” 

“Why?” Mummy had released Sherlock, so he could find out what unexpected things John would have to say about this. 

“Why? You arrogant fool! I’m older than you, I’m a soldier, and Moriarty wants to kill me. You need to live, and hooking your life to mine is a bad idea.” 

“And you’ll probably catch a cold for lying around on the cave floor, naked.” 

“Yes, thank you for that, Sherlock; I hadn’t managed to forget I was naked in front of your family.” 

“Our family. You made me feel all these things, so you’re going to stick around to help me figure them out.” 

“Sherlock, I’ll do that anyway, as long as I can. But Maleficent was of the first order of Fae folk, you’ll live long enough you might as well be immortal. Mum was only a half breed herself, so I won’t live a hundred years. You’ve got so much good left to do in the world, which you won’t be able to do if you limit yourself to me.” 

“If you’re not going to be here to make me behave, I might as well take up Jim’s offer of apprenticeship.” 

“You wouldn’t! No, but you would try and blackmail me into being your heart.” John closed his eyes and let his head rest on the wall behind him for just a moment. He kept his eyes closed as he asked, “Anybody else got any suggestions?” 

Sherlock and Mycroft turned expectantly to Mummy. 

“John, my children don’t know my story, any version of it. The important thing is that the love of their father healed me, stopped me from being the evil fairy in every story ever told, even when the rest of the world couldn’t understand why he put up with me. Sherlock has chosen you, and I may not understand it, but I will support it.” 

Sherlock found his feet and embraced Mummy, sticking his tongue out at Mycroft over her bony shoulder. Mycroft straightened his robes as if bored by it all. 

“Now, perhaps we can discuss this Moriarty person, as the name has come to my attention.” 

“Don’t worry about him. John and I are going to hunt him down and kill him.” 

“You’ll excuse me brother, if that doesn’t set my mind at ease.” 

“John almost killed him with a cane. The two of us will crush Moriarty in a week.” 

“By the time you find this Moriarty, you’ll have gotten bored with the chase, and John.” 

“Moriarty left his stuff here, so a simple ownership spell can be used to track him down.” 

“Assuming he didn’t steal everything he owns. You do know what they say about assuming, or did you erase that as irrelevant?” 

“Enough.” A gentle word and a bit of calming magic flowed over them, turning their attention to Mummy. “Sherlock, why don’t you bring Moriarty’s belongs out where we can all see them?” 

“John,” Sherlock turned to ask where Jim’s things were, but John had left. Sherlock muttered to himself as he moved to the doorway. “Terrible time to decide he needs clothes.” 

Walking down the hallway, Sherlock heard noise in the bath room and pulled the curtain open. John paused in soaping himself up to glare at the intrusion. 

“Where’s Jim’s stuff?” 

“In his room, Sherlock, not this one.” 

For that comment, Sherlock left the curtain open as he walked away. He’d never been to Jim’s room, knowing what Jim would expect if he showed up there, but he knew which one it was. A look around showed a few items under the bed, and a spell showed only a few anti-theft spells on the items. Those were quick for Sherlock to disperse so he could pull the items from under the bed: three bags of holding and a wineskin that carried Mycroft’s seal. 

Something cold and heavy settled into Sherlock’s stomach and he returned to the bath room. John had closed the curtain again and was drying off after his quick scrub down. The smile of greeting slid off his face when he saw Sherlock. 

“What?” 

“How did you find me?” 

“I told you, my friends took me to you.” 

“Then how did Jim get my equipment?” 

“I don’t know.” John quickly went from confused to irritated when he made the connection Sherlock had made. “You think I was working for Jim even then?” 

“Prove me wrong; tell me who your friends are.” 

“Dragons, Sherlock. I can talk to dragons.” John balled his hands into fists and glared up at Sherlock. “You didn’t trust me very long, did you?” 

“Dragons, John?” Mycroft asked, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Go away Mycroft; John and I were about to have our first fight.” 

“You will have plenty of time for such trivialities; allow him to tell me of the dragons.” 

“Children, enough bickering.” 

John sighed, dropping his towel and reaching for his clothes. Apparently he was going to have an audience for a while; he might as well get comfortable. 

“Mummy, John claims he has talked to dragons.” 

“Charming, but you still cannot have one as a pet, Mycroft.” 

John started to laugh, one hand holding his trousers around his hips. He couldn’t fasten them or put on his shirt as his whole body shook with laughter. When he did manage to calm down, it was to see his audience was still very interested in him. 

“John, would you care to explain what is so funny about my interest in dragons?” Mycroft sounded as if he would really like to explain to John why he wasn’t to be mocked. 

“Sorry, I could just see the look on Lestrade’s face if you tried to walk him.” 

“Lestrade?” 

“He’s the silver dragon that patrols the desert, head of his clan. He took me to Sherlock when they found him. If you’d like, I’ll introduce you, but it would be best not to mention the pet thing.” 

“I was a child when I decided I wanted a pet dragon.” 

“You were twenty-three.” Sherlock pointed out. They might be close to immortal, but they’d grown as normal humans in those early years. 

“At least I didn’t name my coat.” 

Mycroft wanted to embarrass Sherlock with the comment, but instead Sherlock realized his coat might still be in his bag of holding. 

“Right.” John said, though he was confused by Mycroft’s last statement. “That’s the most interesting thing about me, so I’ll get dressed and meet you in the kitchen, yeah?” 

“John, don’t sell yourself short.” Sherlock offered in mocking sympathy. “I haven’t even told them you can reanimate the dead.” 

That got Mycroft and Mummy fully interested in shirtless John, and they squeezed past him into the bath room. Sherlock would get his own explanation of that later, as well as a more detailed examination of John’s muscular yet padded torso. Taking Jim’s stolen bags to the kitchen, Sherlock carefully opened his. Reaching in, he found his coat where he’d left it. 

“Irene!” He called, touching the fabric. 

Irene moaned back, a surprisingly throaty sound for a coat without a throat. She slipped as easily over his present clothes as she had the silks he used to wear. Sherlock petted a sleeve and spoke softly for her. 

“I thought you were gone for good. But I’ll never leave you alone again; I’m going to make you a friend.” 

The fabric rustled around him, Irene’s version of a hug and Sherlock got to his feet. The next item out of his bag was a large cauldron, his favorite one for creating magic items. John’s old cloak, the filthy one he’d used to convince the town he was a witch, was the first item in. The smell, and the items that made it smell that way, would add to the character of the final item. The contents of John’s healer’s bag were added for health components, and tea leaves for predictive powers. Sherlock added John’s favorite chopping knife, a dash of salt and a handful of earth. 

From his bag of holding, Sherlock produced tree resin to keep out water, spider silk for strength, raw silk for texture and dew drops for temperature control. As a final thought, Sherlock reached for John’s mortar and pestle. The device was very useful, as was John, but it broke things down like Jim had tried to do to them. His insults had irritated John, but Jim would have used Sherlock’s lust for knowledge to grind him into nothing. John had always been there, ready to glue Sherlock back together before Jim could do more than wear him down. Setting the mortar aside, Sherlock decided to make a pocket for it and pulled a jar of binding agent from John’s shelves. 

That decided, Sherlock began forming the spell in his mind, putting his intentions into words. John would need rejuvenation and protection from the elements and magic, just as Sherlock had in Irene. But John would need room to fight, and pockets for all his supplies, some pockets that would hold everything and a few that held only a specific item, such as his sword and mortar. John would require comfort and the ability to blend, something that only showed how magnificent he was when he was fighting. 

Blue or green, with silver trim? No, not silver; silver wasn’t strong or dangerous enough to represent John. Steel. John needed trim of steel: formal enough looking but one of the strongest metals yet known. Intentions formed, Sherlock pushed, feeling the traces of John in the items merge with his magic as he commanded the ingredients to combine. 

When the magic left him, Sherlock began to wobble on his feet and he quickly sat down. John was right (not that he’d ever admit it) but Sherlock did need to rest. 

“No, Mycroft, I’d never even considered it before today,” John griped as he led the crowd into the kitchen. He’d managed to get his shirt on, but he was still barefoot. He eyeballed Sherlock as he walked by, and Sherlock saw that John knew why he was sitting down. “I’d never needed a dead body to come to my rescue.” 

“John, while the kettle boils, why don’t you come see what I made for you?” 

John didn’t answer, refilling the kettle from the pipe in the kitchen and putting it over the fire. When he did walk over to Sherlock, he’d managed to get most of the trepidation off his face. 

“Reach into the cauldron and pull it out.” 

“Is it dangerous?” 

A reasonable question, but Sherlock considered his audience before answering. “Could be.” 

John didn’t disappoint; he reached in anyway. The contents off the cauldron reached up to swallow John’s hand, moving up his arm and around him. John glanced at Sherlock, but must have been reassured by what he saw there because he didn’t try and fight. In less than a minute, the thick liquid had settled around John. It solidified into a coat with steel trim and buttons, a short collar and lots of room for John to move. It wavered between green and blue before settling on blue, but Sherlock waited until John told him the spell was done. 

“Mary?” John asked in a small voice, not expecting the magic coat to talk to him, and Sherlock knew the spell was competed. 

“Sherlock, there are less drastic ways of marking John as your territory.” 

“Mycroft.” Mummy’s tone was mildly disapproving, which was as strong a rebuke as her boys ever received from her. “Don’t be jealous of your brother finding someone before you. After they recover from their day, we will return home and you can meet the suitors I have selected for you.” 

Mycroft managed to wilt even with his backbone as stiff as a pole. Sherlock snickered, but John had been on the receiving end of enough matchmaking attempts to sympathize. 

“Let me get some sleep, and I’ll introduce you to Lestrade before you go.” 

“A splendid idea.” Mummy said, magically reaching out to pull John away from the table. “Mycroft and I will have tea and guard the house while you and Sherlock get some sleep.” 

“Mummy!” Sherlock protested as his body started following John out of the kitchen. 

“Sleep well, darling.” Mummy called in response, even as her magic walked John and Sherlock into the same bedroom. When Sherlock was in control of his body once again, he blushed as he looked around John’s room. 

“Sherlock, I’m too tired to earn that blush.” John wiped his feet before curling up on his bed. “Maybe when we wake up, if you can do it without chanting my name.” 

“Chanting your name?” 

John looked up and grinned. “You did before.” 

Sherlock laughed and settled into the bed with John, his embarrassment gone in the face of John’s happiness; a contagious happiness, one that would grow between Sherlock and John for the rest of their days. 


End file.
